


The Epic Friendship of Jim and Spock, Step 1

by dracofiend



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-01
Updated: 2011-06-01
Packaged: 2017-10-25 01:32:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracofiend/pseuds/dracofiend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just another story about Jim and Spock getting to know each other, onboard the Enterprise, and occasionally, off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Epic Friendship of Jim and Spock, Step 1

**  
It’s been called the reminiscence effect.   
**

Jim notices it first three months after it happens—the swing of Spock’s hair from his perfectly rounded head. It had happened on the Narada, as they were rushing to the Ambassador’s ship, with future Romulans ready to leap out from any corner and a less than 4.3% chance the plan would work. Jim saw it then—Spock, a step ahead, the swing of his hair leading the way. But it’s only now—now on the Enterprise, where he is the captain (some mornings he wakes up and is still disoriented by that—as much as he was that first moment the Ambassador told him it must be so), and Spock is first officer (he’s not completely sure why, Spock’s better than that), that he thinks of what he saw. He’s watching Spock lean toward Uhura; they’re saying something to each other. Spock’s facing the screens and their murmur is too low for Jim to pick up—but Jim’s pretty sure Spock is saying _Lieutenant_. She probably likes it that way, Jim thinks. It sounds vaguely bitter in his own head, which is weird, or maybe not, since Spock did kick his ass in front of her. He thinks hard but can’t picture it—he can’t picture anything from that time, except for stars in his eyes and murder in Spock’s, but he guesses that not a single Spock hair had been out of place.

 **  
Somewhere there’s a planet where it’d be totally normal.   
**

Jim’s shift ends and he’s headed to the turbolift, and while he’s kind of tired, he’s never been a believer in naps. He wants to talk to someone—do something. He comms Bones as the turbolift whooshes toward Deck 12.

“Hey Bones—I was going to get a drink. You interested?” he says into his communicator.

Bones’ response is just like his drinks; dry and just a little more than a person needs. “Yeah, too bad this Ardanian tongueworm didn’t get the shift schedule you sent out. I can’t put it down and it’s already infected seven people. It’s usually transferred orally—shoulda seen the looks on their faces when I told them that. I think some folks are in for a lonely—”

“Hey, aren’t you violating a bunch of doctor-patient confidentiality regs?” Jim interrupts, to shut him up.

“Didn’t tell you who, did I?” Bones answers. “But I’d keep my mouth to myself for the next week or so if I were you—”

“I’ll talk to you later,” Jim cuts him off again as the turbolift stops. “It’s going to take awhile for me to lick all the crew, so I’d better get on that. Think I’ll start with my senior officers first.” He snaps shut his communicator and looks up to see Spock at the open doors, eyebrow lifted.

Spock steps in and turns to stand beside Jim, and doesn’t say a thing. After a second, Jim peeks at him from the corner of his eye. When it becomes clear that Spock is not going to ask, Jim kind of grins to himself. Except it’s not to himself, apparently, because Spock’s even tones sound over the swish of the turbolift, expressing a sincere hope that Jim’s last words were intended to convey humor, not an unfinished task.

Jim turns his head and grins openly.

“Why—you nervous?”

“You were observing me rather closely,” Spock replies, looking straight ahead.

“Could be a medical emergency,” Jim tells Spock’s profile.

Spock tilts his head before answering. “It is highly unlikely that such would be the case.”

“How unlikely?”

“Eight hundred million, nine—”

“Man, sometimes I really wonder what it’s like in there,” Jim interrupts, casting an amused glance at Spock’s forehead. The turbolift comes to a stop and the doors slide open.

“If I had to, though,” Jim says, clapping Spock on the shoulder, “I’d definitely start with you.” He exits the turbolift, leaving Spock and his elevated eyebrow behind.

 **  
Everything you need to know, you learned in kindergarten.   
**

They’re in the mess hall, just sitting down at their usual table, when Sulu jumps up again.

“Forgot my knife,” he says, setting down his tray. Once he’s gone, Jim reaches over, takes Sulu’s fork, and starts eating. Bones looks at him and rolls his eyes, but doesn’t say anything; neither does Spock. Jim takes a drink—Coca-Cola 8000, still the real thing, baby—and is setting down his glass when Sulu returns.

“So did you guys see—” he stops short, putting his knife down and searching his tray. “What happened to my fork?”

Jim spears a cucumber and crunches away. Sulu glances at Bones and Spock briefly, then at Jim.

“Maybe you forgot that too,” Jim suggests after swallowing. Sulu opens his mouth to say, _no, I’m pretty sure I had one_ , but Jim smiles at him and Sulu shuts his mouth. With a faintly mutinous air, gets up and goes back to get a new fork.

The moment he’s gone, Jim grabs Sulu’s knife and applies it to the juicy steak in front of him.

“Unbelievable,” Bones mutters, not bothering to raise his head.

“Captain,” Spock says, making it sound like _cadet_ , “if you require additional utensils they are available at the replicator array.”

“Nope—I got everything I need,” Jim answers cheerily around his mouthful. “Ooh, meant to get a roll though—oh, here we go.” He helps himself to the bread roll on Sulu’s tray and tears off a piece.

Spock’s looking at him, his soup spoon hovering.

“Jim’s just sore because Sulu beat the shit out of him at fencing today,” Bones says, disapproval thickening his drawl.

“I see,” Spock says, eyes flicking to Bones, then back to Jim. “I confess I was unaware that this is a customary response to such an occurrence among humans.”

“That’s because you haven’t spent enough time around six-year-olds,” Bones says, “or Jim.”

“Don’t worry,” Jim puts in, chewing on his delicious, delicious roll. “We’ve got five whole years together.”

“Four years, five months, and twelve days,” Spock replies.

Bones gives a short laugh. “So you’re counting down too, huh?”

Sulu gets back, with both a knife _and_ a fork in hand, and sits—then whips his head up.

“Is that my roll?” he demands, glaring at Jim.

Jim pops the last of it into his mouth. “I don’t think so,” he says. Sulu glares at him, hard, and stands up to go back to the replicators for a third time—but Jim laughs and tells him to take a seat.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, rising from his chair, as Sulu resumes his own, warily. Jim grins at him, then points at Bones and Spock. “Just so you know, you guys are no fun.”

Bones snorts; Spock looks up at Jim standing next to him and says, “I do not believe being ‘fun’ is a prerequisite for my post.”

Jim looks down at him, grinning.

“I take it back,” Jim says. “You, Bones,” he points, “you’re no fun.” He claps Spock on the back and turns to the replicators, to get a fresh roll and a big fat piece of blueberry pie, for Sulu.

 **  
Physical fitness is logical.   
**

Jim’s the captain, and a pretty smart guy, and if it had been anyone other than Spock and Uhura, Jim would’ve known much sooner. Instead, everything seems fine between them until Rand mentions something that tips him off. He spends a shift on the bridge surreptitiously watching them work, trying to figure out if there’s any sign he could’ve picked up on, any at all. They seem completely normal. At the end of the shift, he times it so he gets into the turbolift just after Spock. Uhura doesn’t.

So, obviously, he should’ve figured it out earlier. He kicks himself mentally, but just once, because hell, it’s Spock—what’s a guy gonna do.

“Sulu and I were going to do some fencing in an hour, but he canceled,” Jim lies breezily. “I still have rec room 2—want to join me in some physical fitness?”

Spock looks at him like he knows Jim’s lying.

“Maintaining physical fitness is logical,” Jim adds.

“It is,” Spock replies shortly. Jim smiles, thinking _good,_ until Spock continues with “However, I have already completed my daily physical exercises and there are other matters requiring my attention.”

“Like what?”

“I have a number of xenobiology journals to review. In addition, I’m scheduled for a shift in Lab 12—”

“Where those fungi or whatever haven’t done a damn thing since you brought them there?” Jim cuts in. He holds up a hand. “Look, all I’m asking is an hour. It’s boring, training by myself.” He gives Spock a look that he hopes says _come on, buddy, this isn’t an order and I won’t make it one unless I really, really have to._

Spock manages to regard him with deep suspicion, without moving a muscle.

“Very well, Captain,” he finally says.

“Great!” Jim grins. “Rec room 2—2100. See you then. And maybe you can teach me that neck pinch thing.” The turbolift stops and he gets off before Spock can launch into his lecture about V’Shan, years of training, advanced techniques, complete mental focus, and the million other reasons Jim could never learn the pinch.

An hour and a half later, Jim’s sweating through his regulation gym clothes and circling Spock, whose forehead hasn’t even broken into a sheen.

“So,” Jim says, apropos of nothing, “you and Uhura.” He lunges at Spock and misses. Spock’s expression doesn’t change.

“Did you intend to make some remark concerning Lieutenant Uhura or myself?” Spock says after they’ve made another loop around the mat.

“Yeah,” Jim pants, lunging again. Spock sidesteps him gracefully. “I heard you broke up.”

“I see.”

Jim raises his eyes from Spock’s hands and torso to meet his gaze. “So did you?”

Spock leaps forward in answer and Jim is facedown on the mat, his left arm pinned behind him.

“If you refer to our intimate relationship, yes, it has come to an end, although I fail to see the relevance of that fact to the task at hand,” Spock says, perfectly calmly.

Jim has been trying, unsuccessfully, to wedge his right arm under him so he can lever himself up. He torques his body around in a burst of effort and frees himself of Spock’s grasp.

“Well,” Jim exhales heavily, facing Spock again (who is still not even out of breath, dammit), “this is where you get to let it all out. You know, vent.” He darts at Spock from the side—Spock anticipates the move and catches Jim’s arm, pulling him to the ground.

“That is a curious expression,” Spock replies evenly, digging a knee into Jim’s chest. “It appears to be based on a typically human response to strong emotions.”

Jim shoves Spock off and grunts, “Yeah, well, I’ve been on the receiving end of your typically human response to strong emotions and trust me, it’s better this way.”

Spock tries to trip him as Jim jumps to the right, but Jim clears Spock’s leg and lands on his feet with a grin.

“As you are aware,” Spock says, “there were unique and extenuating circumstances present at that time—” Jim holds up his hands and apologizes for bringing it up, or tries to, but can’t quite get it out because Spock has barreled into him and the air is pressed from his lungs in a mighty gasp. “—and I will not allow it to happen again,” Spock finishes immaculately, pasting Jim to the floor. Jim looks up, and it’s like déjà vu for an instant—white lights blur the points of Spock’s ears; Spock’s brows are sharp over bright, bright eyes.

It makes Jim cough even though no hands grip his throat—Spock releases him and springs lithely to his feet.

“I’m sorry,” Jim says, a little hoarsely. He clears his throat and shakes his head, getting up. “About you and Uhura.”

“Your concern is appreciated, Captain, but unnecessary,” Spock returns, circling with his arms at the ready.

“I know,” Jim says. He thinks of the Ambassador, the shock of warm fingers suddenly on his face—of floods, valleys, a universe of grief suddenly thrust in his heart. “I’m sorry anyway.”

He launches himself at Spock, at Spock’s non-sweaty face and still-neat hair, and gets him. They crash to the ground; Jim doesn’t let go.

 **  
Vulcans don’t lie (but they’re not above allowing you to _infer_ ).   
**

He’s in Lab 12 one day where Spock’s fungi (“an emergent variety of Deltan moss,” Spock says) have finally sprouted, or whatever it is that moss does.

“And it only took what, a year?” Jim says, peering through the eyepiece to examine the cross-section while Spock prepares another sample.

“We have not yet observed the full reproductive cycle,” Spock responds, making it sound like _you obviously know nothing about and care nothing for this potentially significant addition to our knowledge of indigenous Deltan fauna so why are we even having this conversation._

“Oh…so these pod things are like berries,” Jim replies, reaching out to poke one. Spock is beside him in a flash, replacing the protective covering over the fungi.

“Captain, I must ask that you refrain from disturbing the moss—as I believe I have mentioned we are monitoring its reactions to various stimuli, none of which includes your finger.” He presses a button and a clear dome settles over the plant with a hiss. Then he turns to Jim.

“Is there something I can do for you, Captain,” he says, making it sound like _go away._

Jim smiles. “You’re doing it just fine, Mr. Spock. Carry on.”

Spock gives him a dark look, not twitching a brow, then turns back to the greens. Jim watches Spock’s gloved hands examine a twig of some kind, slowly slicing it open lengthwise, tapping out the seeds inside gently into a little dish. Jim moves from where he’s leaning to get a better view.

“Captain,” Spock says after a few moments, still absorbed in the seeds. “May I inquire as to who is running this ship?” He doesn’t look up; Jim doesn’t look at him, but keeps his eyes fixed on the tweezers Spock’s using on one of the seeds.

“Sulu’s got it covered,” he says automatically. “What are you doing now?”

“I am attempting to determine the extent to which we have modified the toxicity of this Bolian water flower, as well as the source of your newfound interest in the research being conducted in this lab.”

“Newfound? I’ve always been into this sort of stuff!” Jim says, with gusto. “It’s _fascinating!_ ”

Spock’s left eyebrow looks like it wants to jump right off his face, but Spock hangs onto it. Barely, Jim guesses. He watches Spock carefully squeeze a drop of something into the little dish in front of him.

“That is certainly surprising,” Spock replies, “in light of your performance in your xenobiologycourses at the Academy.”

Jim redirects his gaze to the side of Spock’s head—did he look up Jim’s record? Bastard, of course he did. Probably in preparation for bringing Jim up on charges of ethical violations. Bastard. Anyway Jim passed all those classes. Eventually.

“You seem to be an awfully big fan of the Academy,” Jim says easily. “Remind me again why you’re here instead of there?”

“There was a vacancy for the position of first officer aboard this vessel—I submitted my candidacy and was accepted,” Spock answers, making it sound like _I took pity on you and your fallible human ways._

“No really,” Jim says, after another moment of watching Spock painstakingly coat each seed in something clear and sticky. “I want to know—why _are_ you here?”

Spock straightens up to retrieve a pipette.

“The genetic compatibility of Vulcans and humans is a complex subject that engendered much speculation and very few published studies based on empirical data,” Spock begins, “and in fact there had been some thought by the Academy’s xenobiology committee to introduce a seminar—”

“Stop that—jeez, you love being literal on purpose, don’t you?” Jim doesn’t let Spock answer that one. “I mean, why aren’t you at the Academy, teaching and researching?”

Spock doesn’t stop in his work. “The reduced availability of flight-ready crew necessitated—”

“Bullshit—you’re like the Academy’s golden boy—you could’ve stayed there if you’d wanted—”

“As a Starfleet officer, my duty is to Starfleet, not to the Academy alone, and under the straitened circumstances following Nero’s attack on our ships at Vulcan I judged it best to continue my service onboard this vessel rather than through academia.” Spock speaks evenly and if the words flow just a tick faster than they ordinarily do no one but Jim would’ve noticed. Jim doesn’t say anything snide or otherwise, for a second—then he murmurs _Yeah,_ and after another moment passes, Spock says quietly, “I had decided to resign from Starfleet entirely, in order to assist in the rebuilding of the Vulcan race—” He pauses. “—but I was advised to remain.”

Jim nods, quirks his mouth. “Admiral Pike?” He wonders that Spock would’ve listened—he wonders what Pike had to say—but instead of asking, he only says, “You know, you could’ve had your own ship. Captain Spock, how about that? Has a nice ring to it, right? You ever give it any thought?” Jim’s voice is bright again—he raises a hand to give Spock a good clap on the back except Spock’s pipetting a purplish fluid into a bright yellow stalk of something and it looks like a delicate business, so he just sets his palm on Spock’s shoulder. It’s so very warm.

Spock finishes and sets the pipette down.

“The Enterprise is the flagship of the fleet,” he says, getting up and stripping off his gloves, as if it’s an answer.

It’s not, but Jim doesn’t feel like calling Spock out on it now. Maybe later. Someday.

“Best crew around, right?” he grins. Spock looks at him, completely grin-less, as always.

“Yes,” he says.

 **  
Remember: There’s no such thing as a no-win scenario.   
**

“Hey! I thought I told you to stay on the ship!” Jim calls out in his best captain voice. Or at least, he tries to, but it’s a lot harder when he’s holding onto his thigh to keep his leg from falling off. There’s the little matter of his stomach, too—Jim hasn’t been able to take a good look but he has a suspicion that it’s on red alert.

Spock’s face confirms it as he strides swiftly from somewhere beyond Jim’s periphery and drops to a knee, his tricorder out.

“Chekhov and Thomas—” Jim starts to ask.

“They are safely aboard; Dr. McCoy is seeing to their medical needs,” Spock says crisply, dropping the tricorder and tearing open the pack he brought. The scent of phaser fire is thick in the air, but Jim barely notices it anymore, or the shouting of Talarian guerilla forces echoing through the gaps in the walls. He does notice Spock and the giant roll of bandages; Spock’s hands are lightning fast and amazingly warm as they wrap and wrap and wrap around Jim’s middle. When he stops, the whole roll is gone.

“You’re really good at this,” Jim tells the top of Spock’s head. “Does Bones know?”

Spock doesn’t answer; his face is tense as he pulls his shirt over his head and gives it a few snips with surgical scissors.

“Nah, Bones doesn’t know,” Jim answers for Spock. Distantly he hears the breathlessness in his voice, but nothing hurts really, which is a good and bad thing. “Otherwise he would’ve tried to recruit you into medical—but I’m not gonna let him poach you from me, got that? By the way, who’s running the ship?”

“Lieutenant Commander Scott is in command,” Spock responds tersely, giving what remains of his shirt a final tug. Jim watches Spock wind blue strips tightly around his leg, smoothly, quickly, and god, Spock’s hands are _warm,_ the best thing he’s felt since—his stomach.

“Your hands are like magic,” Jim thinks—no, says. He starts to laugh, except he can’t, so he ends up making a weird wheezy noise instead. “I think I’m delirious,” Jim breathes out. “Do I sound delirious?”

Spock tapes the makeshift bandage together and snaps his head up. It startles Jim, who’s feeling fuzzier by the second.

“Captain, where is the nearest exit?”

Jim frowns—wants to tell Spock don’t worry—but Spock will just say something Vulcan-y, like _Vulcans do not worry,_ which is _so_ not true, because Spock is, just look at—

“Captain, which way did you enter?”

Yeah, Spock’s definitely worried—Jim blinks up at him and tells him to stop.

“Captain, there is very little time,” Spock’s worried face says. “I will perform a mind-meld with you to ascertain the best method of escape.”

 _Like before? Okay,_ Jim thinks—except he might’ve said it out loud because Spock’s mouth frowns slightly—and then his hand is on Jim’s face. It’s warm and Jim braces for something—grief—but there is none, there is none, Spock isn’t sad now and that makes Jim happy, really happy, and he floats. Spock is there—here—and he’s just so _warm_ —and Jim sees the bridge, and Spock’s standing there, and Bones, and Uhura, and Chekhov and Sulu are at their consoles; they’re waiting for orders, they’re waiting for _him_ —

Jim’s suddenly alone and opens his eyes.

“Captain, we—”

A deafening explosion sounds from beyond Spock—but Jim hears it and can’t see it through his abrupt Vulcan shield. There’s a great crashing and crunching, falling objects falling, then Spock’s face re-appears; he darts anxious eyes over Jim and seems satisfied.

“I must assess the damage—do not attempt to move,” he orders Jim, which is ridiculous because who’s the captain here, anyway? But Spock has sprung to his feet and is running away, into dark smoke in the distance. Jim hopes he makes it back onto the ship okay; he wants to yell at Spock to watch out for the land mines the guerillas like to use—they look like rocks and Spock’s got a thing for rocks—but before he can, Spock re-emerges from the haze.

Jim opens his mouth to shout, _what about the Enterprise?_ because he’s pretty sure Spock’s going the wrong way; Spock’s running toward him, his eyes fixed on Jim, arms and legs swinging, his black hair swinging, lifting high from his forehead, poised for flight. For a moment it looks like Spock’s head has wings.

Spock arrives and swoops down into a crouch. “The main entrance has been destroyed—”

“You know your hair? It does this crazy thing,” Jim tells him with a grin. He’s about to explain to Spock’s troubled eyebrow when there are arms burrowing under him and he’s being hoisted from the ground.

“Whoa, what’s going on?” he demands, wishing he weren’t so goddammned dizzy. He sees the scenery shift—the dull phaser-blasted walls are sliding past him now. “Are you—you can’t carry me out of here, this was a prison, Spock!” Jim grimaces—his head hurts with the sudden wave of clarity. “The Talarian troops will be here any second and if not, the rebels will be—you have to put me down, find a way out and beam back to the Enterprise so you can get the hell out before they blow the whole fucking planet up. _Now_ , Mr. Spock,” he commands, when the walls just keep going by. His head bumps Spock’s. “Gah, sorry—that’s an order, Spock!”

“Incorrect,” Spock says between breaths, as he runs down a low-ceilinged corridor that may be infested with rebels or soldiers or god knows what else. “You have been relieved of command.”

“What? When did this happen? You can’t do that!”

“I relieved you, approximately three minutes ago, pursuant to regulation 603—”

“Spock, just put me down! You can’t—”

A streak of orange cuts him off; Spock swerves from its path and dodges around the nearest pillar. He bends his knees and gently deposits Jim to the ground before drawing his phaser to return fire. Jim is feeling pretty bad now—his head—everything—is killing him and he fights to focus, stay conscious, think of what he can do to help.

He hasn’t come up with anything by the time the firefight’s over and Spock is leaning down to pick him up again.

“No, no, listen,” Jim says, angry and pleading at once, “this prison is a fucking labyrinth and you won’t be able to beam back up unless you get out—”

“You have no authority to give orders at this time—”

“—and you can’t get out carrying me like a fucking baby so you need to leave me—”

“I am fully aware of the probability that we will be able to locate an exit before the Talarians activate the energy field—”

“—get back to the Enterprise and then try to come back for me after, got it?”

Spock’s got his arms crooked under Jim and is on his feet. “That is not a logical solution.”

“Neither is having both of us die in here!” Jim argues, but Spock is running again.

“You seem to postulate a ‘no-win’ scenario,” Spock replies, speaking coolly between his quick breaths.

Jim’s head is reeling—he really wants to laugh. _I hate you,_ he thinks, sick to his stomach because he’s half-dead and Spock isn’t going to leave and he’d do anything, anything to get Spock to _go._

“It’s not a no-win,” he says. “You set me down, beam back up, take command of the Enterprise without the possibility of me showing up unexpectedly to undermine your authority. See? It’s a _total_ win, I promise—so please, Spock, just—”

He’s not sure what else he can say after that, but it’s a moot point anyway, because a shitload of Talarians jump out right then and Spock shouts something, takes a shocking leap through the air, clutching Jim hard. Jim feels his vision fade—the world around him fades except the warmth of Spock’s arms, narrow beams of warmth curved to his skin, unfailing, inflexible, they will never let Jim slip—

And then the world comes back, in the form of the transporter pad, the Enterprise, the apprehensive faces of his expectant crew and their voices, spilling everywhere.

“Jim!” Bones shouts, rushing toward them with a kit. “Spock, thank god!”

Jim looks up at Spock, still cradling him close, and mumbles, “Got no credibility left, do I?” Then he passes out, for real.

 **  
Because he is, and always shall be, your friend.   
**

“Enter.”

Jim sucks in a breath and winces (it’s only been a few days, he should’ve remembered) as the doors hiss open—and that’s how he looks, wince-faced, when Spock’s gaze meets his.

Jim replaces it with a beaming grin. “Hey! What’s shakin’?”

Spock has remained expressionless as usual; he’s on the sofa in his sitting room, a harp-like instrument propped against his chest. “I assume you inquire as to my current occupation. I am playing my ka’athyra.”

Jim steps inside tentatively and pauses, halfway to the sofa. “Oh. Wow. Is, uh, is music logical?” he asks, grinning still and hoping to hell he’s not disrespecting some ancient Vulcan rite. 

Spock sets the instrument carefully on the ground and stands, folding his hands behind his back. “Vulcan music is traditionally composed of series of mathematical sequences and is, therefore, premised on logical patterns.”

“At ease, Commander,” Jim smiles. Spock’s hands come unfolded, but he looks exactly the same otherwise. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—can I see it?” His eyes fall to the harp and follow it as Spock picks it up and brings it over to Jim. “What’s it called again? A kathra?”

“Ka’athyra,” Spock says, holding it up. Jim takes it carefully, looks closely at the deeply burnished frame and the fine golden strings. It looks like an heirloom that lives a pampered life. “It is tuned to a 12-tone chromatic scale,” Spock says.

“Oh. It’s…beautiful,” Jim says, stroking the edge with his thumb. It is. “Do all Vulcans know how to play it?”

“Most are taught, as children, as a means of fostering discipline over one’s thoughts and emotions.”

Jim grins. “Well then you must be some kind of virtuoso.”

Spock gently takes the ka’athyra from Jim’s hands and goes to the far wall, where two empty hooks show its usual resting place.

“Uh, that was supposed to be a compliment,” Jim says, smiling. Secretly, he’s a little uncomfortable—something’s been off about Spock ever since the Talarian fiasco but Jim can’t figure out what, and Spock hasn’t been helping. All Jim has to go on is that after he woke up in sickbay, Bones came over and started scanning him, muttering _finally_ and yelling to Chapel to notify the Captain’s new best friend. “He’s been driving me up the wall, comming me every two minutes,” Bones had told him, tricorder beeping. “I tried ignoring him but then he started coming up here if you can believe it; last time I had to threaten him with regulation 619 just to get some damned peace.”

Jim had smiled at that—Spock _was_ worried about him!—but it seemed like Bones must’ve been exaggerating because when he showed up on the bridge at last, everyone had looked really relieved and happy to see him, except Spock, who had merely inclined his head and said _Captain._

“Ah,” Spock says. “Thank you.” The ka’athyra hangs neatly on the wall and Spock turns back to Jim. There’s an awkward silence then—at least, it feels awkward to Jim, although Spock seems perfectly content to stand and look, his arms by his sides.

“Anyway, I just wanted to stop by to say thank you, for saving my ass back there. That signal-boosting tracking device you came up with was genius, really impressive—even Scotty said so.” Jim clears his throat and gives Spock a _job well done, Commander_ sort of nod. “Not sure I would’ve made it out by myself, that time.”

“Your gratitude is appreciated—”

“But not necessary? I disagree,” Jim says. Spock’s brow starts to rise—“I _am_ allowed to disagree, aren’t I?” Jim asks, with a slight smile.

Spock’s brow goes down. “Of course,” he says, making it sound like _moron._ “However, your assumption regarding my next statement is incorrect. I was about to point out that the chances of your return to the Enterprise, unassisted and alive, were approximately 0.02%.”

Jim blinks. “So—there was a chance.”

“Of approximately 0.02%, yes.”

Jim starts to laugh, stops with a grimace when it hurts, then smiles again—Spock has taken a half-step toward him, one hand extended. Jim presses a palm to his stomach where the skin is still new, then raises it. “I’m fine.” He straightens his uniform; Spock resumes his carefully relaxed stance. “Anyway I’m glad you were there,” Jim tells him, “and I’m glad that you’re here.” He grins at Spock. The line of Spock’s hair is razor-straight along his skin. “I’m starting to think I can’t do this without you.”

Spock inclines his head. “You could not,” he says, and it sounds like _you’ll never have to._

 

  



End file.
